all that jazz

This post comes in weeks late. I hadn’t thought of it till yesterday: I met up with faddy and spied on his phone friend, who refused to meet him. We came to talk of liars: lie because you fear judgement, consequence, losing. I know I am not going back there coz I lied about who I was! Why do we feel the need to create and cover up? Size 34 for 36, 5 feet 5.5inches for 5-6, plump for fat, subtlety for rage, discipline for boredom; luxury for can’t have; then there are bigger fantasies incorporated to spice up life or tune it down; hey why?

Fear of being judged, left out, accused and then abused… silently maybe, in actions or whispers… what I feel right now is: mortified. Family does that to you; they have a special grapevine of aunts and onkels, who use Bell’s invention to its maximum cruelty: emphatic question marks, exclamations, fake jaw drops, accusations. I have over-heard them and jeered at mom and she has jeered back. “You r stupid, naive and trust people too soon; one needs is a donkey’s IQ to tie u around a ninny.” In a vague context, she may be right.

Let me reiterate Jesus's Q “Are u flawless to judge?” have u never tripped? Never loved someone who didn't give you another option? Never trusted the wrong people? Never fell flat on your face?

Style Icon was returning to the heart of the big apple and I went to have dinner with the family an hour before his departure. I had discussions with the wise capitalist throughout the day; her patent ‘why bother’ violated my desire. I was unsure, when there was no need to be- dad at the same time, with his undying enthusiasm couldn't make it. I did go and had a nice time too… a drink with the boys’ chats with uncle and aunt: I saw how things were crumbling and how they were building, slowly.

I love family functions, small gatherings, meeting cousins. I am also heavily influenced by the wise capitalist; I like her cold pragmatism, it works for her. I don’t know if it does for me that well. I think I am too much of a family leech.

Waiting for the Crow…

I threw it off from

my empty scald hands,
The cellphone

sparked that

evening.
It had happened.
I had tried running – farther every year.
I had to return never the less to the same

cursed grounds,
The stifling stench of emotions,
Of tear pools.

My entry was a head turner,
The Hargreaves alley leading to the drawing room seemed endless.
Every head in the room turned,
Every eye cutting through me,
A fusion of chutzpah and hatred.
My cousin had forewarned her children-
They were forbidden to talk to their shameless aunt.
My sister pretended familial affection and loss.
Daddy was too busy crying.
After 33 years of marriage for the first time and maybe the last.
He already looked pale and drained.
I knew he would die sooner.

Sitting there I was the only pulmonary artery amongst the veins.
They couldn't accept me,couldn't pull me out
I had embarrassed my parents
Denounced my Hindutva
Sang Hail Mary with Om Namah Shivaya.

I left the country and never returned.
I had lived against their teachings.

My father once commented to an over-friendly relative:
“Our daughter believes in distant love.
Without fail we receive quarterly allowances,
Anniversary and birthday gifts – nothing else”
My mother vehemently added, “Our love stifles her.”

All I thought was: 25 years were enough in a country bonded by tradition.

The reel replays every now and then:
“A pious mother’s- perverted daughter.
A religious mother’s- agnostic daughter,
A conventional mother’s- destructive daughter,
An Indian mother’s- diasporic daughter,
A heterosexual mother’s- bisexual daughter.”

Voices hummed as I sat across the shroud.
“She has a British girlfriend,' another fat lady added, and a Swiss boyfriend too--
god what shame befell on the family!”

I insisted on seeing her burn away
They labeled that act as well:

I had never been a bad daughter-
I tried explaining, “I couldn't have been any different –
I would have been a lie.”

Dark glasses are made to hide swollen eyes: retail mantra

And there—
Waiting for the crow, I wondered whether
It would come for me?
And what if it didn't --
Would it matter?

Patriarchy and man

Sometimes it seems that I have spent my whole life fighting men and women injected with unreasonably strong doses of “a man is a man is a man” syndrome.
Male as a gender evolves from being a child, to a teen with pee pee, a man with broad shoulders, moving forward to his shark like qualities in the conference\ bedroom, to finally ending up as an old salesman trying to sell machismo to himself.

I am in my mid-twenties, not too old but old enough to get every action and grasp every interaction of human society. What do I conclude: Men are pathetic. At the end of their life, they are Michael Henchards’ of the world, all you can do is feel sad for them. There is nothing much to offer, even if you wanted to. Too much pride,too much gratitude,too much distance,too many walls… fathers, husbands, uncles: all become pitiable characters.

I believe a man's job is harder than a woman’s and truly so. The world takes a man’s failure and a woman’s success too seriously. Today, men can cry but they can’t be whiners’, although I respect a metrosexual male with impeccable sense of hygiene, perfect taste in food and clothing and a money making drive, there are really few of those, and those also come with a baggage. I found one such guy with a mother fixation: I ran so fast that the recollection of it makes me pant.

Apart from that, men are never given the best part of the pie, even though they are made to believe in the antithesis. They are the bread winners, the party goers, the ones with great jobs and all the money. Of course, they are the swingers, the seducers- the men who are tired coz they work so hard and all they get when they come home is an irritated wife and cranky children. They are the ones that single women like me have sympathy for; we cushion him from his unemployed-bitch-wife. 'The cab ride home and the slow kiss and the sweet talk is like the well waxed floor of a hotel lobby, even if you slip they guarantee no scars.'

When he was young and kicking, you were a child just born and being cradled in your mother’s arms. By the time you learn to recognise him; he has forgotten in which grade you are in; forget your class role number! You don’t see him often, when you wake up for school, he is doing his duty to drop you to your bus stop, so that mom can have her peace and make breakfast. By the time he comes home, the repeat telecast of your favourite show is on air and you have to dump the remote and run to do your homework: its better that way than you being asked to do so.

The time you enter puberty, you know your mother could have done so much better. I always pushed my mother to separate from my father. His ambition had reached his prime and he never realised I had moved from school to college. 'You have never seen your father treat your mother badly but you have known the subtle things that he has done very cowardly: like taking his mother’s side in a fight between the two women and apologising to her in the bedroom stating that his mother was old.' Or never showing any inclination to understand her taste in gifts and bringing her just the opposite or worse --gifting her home-utility items. (Women too derive happiness from these; like being ecstatic over a free bucket on a washing powder brand.) I have seen my mother bargain for a rupee and at the end of the week calculate how much she saved from all the fretting and fighting: often when she neared her expectation, she cheered saying that “See, I am an economics major!” I never felt proud of her, still don’t.

However, I blamed my father for a lot of the above, until I saw clones of him all around me. Big talk, suits and cars: all of that crumbles when you grow up. You see that they are lonely old asses whose front and hind legs have been tied in labour and family. It is not the best phase to be in-- ever. You will hate him for the very things that he stood for; even the good ones: loyalty, consistency, ambition, friendliness etc… everything that he wants to give you after all these years; is what you don’t want!

From that golden time of the youth; this is what happens when a man grows old: he is monetarily useless, he is constantly reminded of all the things that he did not do, the inadequacies that the children are now fulfilling, add to that all the negative qualities that make him the hateful man that he is!
And why? Because he never had the epiphany in time that his relationships are the only saviours he has, not his friends, or his firm or his designation. It’s that time his life when his every word is neglected, every suggestion rubbished in order to deflate his ego. It is a kind of revenge that your family takes on you. They do the meanest things in the most hilarious fashion. Kids say the worst words in the most casual of situations.

Chameleon propelled me to write and revisit all the men I have known when, he voiced his feeling for his daughter, “You know; I never had the feeling that she was my child. Never felt that connection: till now, it was just like - okay I have a daughter, big deal! Today I feel she is my child, my blood.” All this comes after racing out of the door faster than superman when his baby shits. Or when a year and a half ago, I heard him coaxing his wife to dump her job and have a baby as he didn’t want to be an old-dad. Why all of this, so late and how long will this feeling last?

If we believe in the motif “All's well that ends well” then the women clearly get all the good stuff. Be it enjoying the husband’s money, to getting all of their children’s affection, to settling down to a good pampered life in the old age where, she has her children’s treats and her husbands insurance. The children are compensating for what their mother never had. The father figure is missing, and its better that way for many families.

loudmouth makes me feel sorry for him when he bitterly says “I know who needs me how much. I know I am not needed here. I will be around till I think I should, it’s my duty.” I feel sad for him, genuinely. He is like the washer-man’s dog, who escorts the washer-man from his house to the river but never has a confirmed place to sleep. The river is too cold and the house is too warm. loudmouth had to choose between his wife and his mother: he ignored his wife till his mother died whom he never pleased enough. And when his mother died his wife had grown weary of him and his family: she had realised that her children were her only buoy. loudmouth struggled for his mother’s acceptance for half his life and now he struggles for his children’s affection in his old-age.

Men are sorry characters, puppets in different ways, the problem lies in an observation that they forget that the high tides of their lives aren’t going to always remain that way. The shallow misery that follows is their pitfall. When I chatted over my thoughts to the wise-capitalist she as a matter of fact stated, “Everything in this world works on performance. You have to constantly perform and compensate with better performance in other areas when, you fall short in some. And marriage is all about exploiting the partner. We all do it, but when you do it consciously, you have the upper hand. Men have been losers from the 1st day: its easier to give a man what he wants because then he will give you ten times in return. If you invest wisely and in the right places: marriage can be the most profitable venture you ever had! Women need men as much as an enterprise needs that ‘x’ employee: but you don’t need to voice that now, do you?”

This exercise answered certain questions like why men die before women. And whoever believes it’s a man’s world; is illiterate about the politics of the underdogs.

ApocaIpse

Ever wondered, if the dead can see you alive? I often question myself whether Nietzsche is happier, now that he is dead? How would he react if he saw faithless god-men? How would he conclude the death of god?

God comes in many faces and in Kalyug he is the lesser and the extreme in power, he is the fraud, the cursed and the ungrateful. He is the mischievous and the malevolent; he is the man calling the shots.

He is Balaji, who conveniently forgot to pay his debt to Kuber; only to be worshiped with money. Faith says, that what you offer to the god-head, twice the amount is returned to you. Ever wondered why? So that you can give back more to him. Balaji gives you twice so that you can bring back more to repay his debt.

Ever wondered why Krishna never went to heaven? Even when he was the father of Chanakya and Machiavelli put together! Wondered why we pray to Ganesh the elephant headed god? The same reason why we will pray to the father when the time is right.

Right time is the time of calamity, the time to avenge, the time for retribution. In war, in death we call upon ourselves to destroy the peace within us and around us.
Lord Siva will call the shots. Guns, war and death will call the shots. It will snow in the tropics, snakes will cease hibernating. Water will surge from the mountains, Ganges will flood the nation. It was born to cleanse the dead, the unholy with purity of mind and soul. When none remains, the heat of greed will thaw into the lands once blessed to cleanse the very souls filled with fear, greed, lust and desire. The lands will submerge and oceans will shroud them.

This time there will be no boats; there will be no planes, only the super rich will live in space. Wait there in patience to see everything wipe away. Waves will grow, earth will break and sigh and life will sediment. For a thousand years it will cover the uncovered, stitch the torn and heal the wounded. The lands will rise as the mountains will fall. Life will create itself slow n steady, will begin a new story which will eventually have its end, with a new lesson --with a new language -- with a new belief. However the crux of the earth will remain a hot ball of melting desire.